


Live Through This

by halfsweet



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: Jaws clenched, he keeps his gaze down on his blanket-covered lap, eyes hardened to fight back the hot tears forming. “So my legs are paralysed forever?”





	Live Through This

**Author's Note:**

> if you thought that I'm not writing a brentrick based off of FOB's single then you thought w r o n g
> 
> Okay so I wrote this in the middle of the night on my phone so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. Enjoy!

“I'm sorry, Mr Urie. Both of your legs are fractured from the accident, and even with surgery, chances are it'd take years for your legs to recover half the potential.”

Jaws clenched, he keeps his gaze down on his blanket-covered lap, eyes hardened to fight back the hot tears forming. “So my legs are paralysed forever?”

“I wouldn't say forever.” The doctor answers, and Brendon tightens his fists in the blanket. “If you choose to go for physical therapy, then there's a slight chance for you to fully recover.”

“How slight?”

The doctor seems hesitant to answer his question, but after a few seconds, the doctor finally relents with a sigh. “Five percent. Most people don't regain their full potential after an accident or surgeries, even with therapies. The most you can get is probably 60 percent, if you undergo intensive rehab, that is.”

 _Five percent to fully recover._ So it doesn't matter if he goes for therapy or not, he still can't walk anyway. He still can't stand on his legs.

“If there's no more questions, I'll take my leave. The nurse will come to check up on you soon.”

Once the doctor leaves, he brings his hands up to his face and takes a harsh breath. _Fuck this._

“Bren…”

Patrick's voice floats in the tense atmosphere, but honestly, all Brendon can hear is the dull roar in his ears-- which takes him a few seconds to realize that it's his own voice, shouting and screaming his frustration out into the world, only muffled by his hands.

Even with Patrick sitting beside him, a comforting hand splayed across his back, he can't seem to stop the tears from streaming down his face.

-

His eyes meet the blank stare of the reflection in the glass mirror from the shelf filled with various trophies from his high school years to his current--no, _past_ \--years as a professional football player.

The latest trophy is from last season's game. He managed to bring the team to championship and first place for three years in a row, but now that his legs are paralysed and _fucking useless--_ in the middle of the season nonetheless--his fourth streak is now impossible to achieve.

His fingers unconsciously grip tight onto the leather-padded armrest of his wheelchair. It's humiliating that he has to use a wheelchair now. That he has to depend on others to do simple tasks.

It's humiliating to be on the receiving end of pitied looks and sympathetic glances and _‘what a shame, he has such bright future’._

Fire begins to ignite in his chest, and with a roar, he punches the glass mirror in front of him, shattering his reflection into jagged pieces.

“Brendon!” Patrick comes running into the room, breathless and alarmed. “What happened?”

Even as Patrick rushes towards him to inspect the injuries on his knuckles, even with the searing pain from the glass shards piercing his skin, all he can feel is nothing but the burning frustration flaring throughout his body.

A large _Most Valuable Player_ trophy sits there right in his line of eyesight, taunting and mocking him.

_You'll never become MVP again. You'll never be able to play again._

He tears his gaze away from the trophy and snatches his hand from Patrick, ignoring his surprised gasp and the hurt in his eyes. “Brendon…”

With his bleeding knuckles, he wheels himself away from Patrick. Away from the trophies.

Away from his shattered dreams.

“Leave me alone.”

-

It's been two months since the accident that left his legs in casts and him on the wheelchair. The press won't stop making up stories about him, and the public won't stop believing the stories.

_Ex-Football Star Brendon Urie Found Involved in Drugs After Major Accident_

_Confession of a Personal Caretaker: Brendon Urie, MVP And The Worst Patient_

_Dreams Are Forever Dreams as Brendon Urie Is Getting Legs Amputated_

He crumples the newspaper into a ball and throws it across the room. Fuck everyone, seriously. He has _never_ gotten involved with drugs. He has _never_ had a personal caretaker to take care of him, and he's only got his legs broken, damn it. Where do they even get the stories that his legs are getting amputated?

Still feeling pissed off at the rumors, he wheels himself into the bedroom, where Patrick--his too sweet and too kind of a boyfriend of five years--is sitting on the bed with his back propped up against the headboard, reading a book he bought online a week ago.

His heart clenches. Ever since they found out that there's minimal chances for him to walk again, Patrick never left the house once in favor of taking care of him. If they run out of groceries, instead of going to the grocery store, Patrick would order online.

It's not that he doesn't appreciate what Patrick's done for him, but the more time he has to dwell on his thoughts, the more he's convinced that Patrick is stuck with him because he doesn't want to hurt his feelings.

Patrick's too nice for his own good; he'd always put others’ needs before his own.

He doesn't get why Patrick's still here with him. He's completely useless now, a burden, a weight that pulls Patrick nowhere but down with him.

Patrick deserves better than him.

He moves to the side of the bed, face remaining impassive as usual even though his heart is cracking, trying to glue itself together. “Why are you still here?”

Patrick looks up from his book, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as a look of confusion crosses his face. “What do you mean?”

Brendon shrugs, eyes downcast to avoid Patrick's questioning ones. “I'm useless now. I can't do anything. I don't have any job. I just don't get why you're still here. I can't give you anything.”

“Brendon…” Patrick scoots towards the edge of the bed and kneels down in front of him, his hands on his knees. “If I were the one with broken legs, would you leave me?”

At Patrick's question, his head snaps up to look at  him. “No! You know I would never leave you.”

Patrick's gaze remains calm on him. “Even if I'm getting in the way of your life? Your career?”

“Patrick,” he cups his face gently, Patrick leaning into his touch, as his fingers trace over his pale skin, “I would quit my career just to take care of you. You're my priority, no matter what.”

Patrick doesn't say anything. He holds his gaze on him, silent and strong, and after a few moments, Brendon finally realizes what Patrick is trying to convey.

“Exactly.” Patrick smiles, all warm and understanding. “Bren, you're not an inconvenience, okay? You will never be one to me. We stick together, no matter what.”

His throat begins to bob, made difficult with the heavy lump in throat. “But-”

Patrick sits up on his knees and places a finger on his lips. “No buts, okay? Through thick and thin.”

 _God._ Is Patrick even real? How could he be so lucky to have him?

He licks his lips, nodding and murmuring, “Okay.”

“Good. Keep that in mind.” The smile returns on Patrick's face as Patrick leans up to give him a chaste kiss. When they pull away, he sees the unconditional love in Patrick's eyes. “I love you.”

He can't say anything at the moment without his voice breaking, so he nods again and presses their foreheads together.

He knows Patrick hears him either way.

-

“I want to go for physical therapy.”

Patrick wears his heart on his sleeve, so he's always smiling around him, but this is the first time that he sees Patrick smiling so wide with tears in his eyes.

It makes him even more determined to get his life back on track.

-

The first few sessions are draining for him. They spend those sessions trying to get him to get the feelings in his legs back.

He almost gives up after five sessions in, it's tiring and nothing seems to work, but by the sixth session, he can shift his legs, albeit a little.

Patrick's cheers and proud grin keeps him going for the next sessions. And the next. And the next.

-

He still can't believe it.

Both of their eyes are wide in surprise, and even though his shaking hands are holding on tight to the railings on his left and right to support his weight, he still did it.

_He can stand again._

-

Lately, after making sure that Patrick's already sound asleep, Brendon would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and go to the living room.

He takes a deep breath and braces himself on the armrests of his wheelchair, then lifts himself up on his feet. It's not that difficult for him anymore, but it does require some effort.

As soon as he's on his feet, he quickly places his hands on the back of the couch to keep himself from falling. When he's balanced himself, he releases his grip from the couch, slightly wobbling on his feet, then takes a step forward.

And another.

Okay, one more.

Right leg--

He bites his lip to muffle any sound from coming out when he falls onto the floor. The pain is _excruciating,_ and he might have pulled a muscle in his leg, but remembering the glint of pride in Patrick's eyes every time he makes an improvement, he lifts himself up on his elbow, using all his upper body strength to get himself back up.

Patrick doesn't know that he's been doing this for a couple of weeks now. He figures it would be a great surprise for him.

-

_“Bren.”_

He chuckles when Patrick throws his arms around him, half hugging and half squeezing him. “Hey. Are you crying?”

“Bren.” Patrick's voice is muffled by his shirt, and Brendon just smiles and wraps his arms around him in return. “You did it. You're walking again.”

“Yeah,” he turns his head to the side and plants a kiss on the top of Patrick's strawberry blonde hair. “I did it. I'm walking again.”

-

He stares at the trophy shelf. They got a new one after he punched the old one last time. It looks nicer, and it matches the decorations in their house.

He continues to stare at a particular one in the middle. It's bigger compared to the others, shinier, and it's his most favorite one yet.

“Brendon Urie. Associated Press, NFL Most Valuable Player. 2017. You must be so proud of yourself, huh?”

He grins when there's a pair of arms wrapped around his torso, and he slings his arm around Patrick's shoulders to pull him close. “Very. But you're the best trophy I'll ever have.”

Patrick turns and buries his face in his shoulder, sighing happily. “My champion.”


End file.
